


xxii; A Case Study in Getting Along with Others

by Theo_Thaur



Series: 31 Days of TUA Whump [22]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Diego Hargreeves Whump, Diego Hargreeves-centric, Gen, Hurt Diego Hargreeves, Hurt No Comfort, Klaus Hargreeves-centric, Number Five | The Boy-centric, Old Number Five | The Boy, One Shot, Pre-Canon, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:20:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27261109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theo_Thaur/pseuds/Theo_Thaur
Summary: Whumptober 2020 submission. No 22. "DO THESE TACOS TASTE FUNNY TO YOU?": Poisoned, Drugged, Withdrawal.-----Three stories. One, Five faces his first Commission seminar and believes his coffee may be tampered with. Two, Diego is drugged before a boxing match. Three, Klaus suffers withdrawal in rehab.
Series: 31 Days of TUA Whump [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951234
Kudos: 5
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	xxii; A Case Study in Getting Along with Others

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGERS: (Poisoned/Five) possible death. (Drugged/Diego) self-confidence issues, nausea. (Withdrawal/Klaus) past drug abuse, drug dependency, rehab facility, scars, Klaus-typical "joke" about bodily harm.

_xxii; A Case Study in Getting Along with Others_

It was Five's first time at a Commission seminar. Apparently they were hosted on a semi-regular basis, presentations HR put together. Around two months in, he'd already picked up a reputation for himself, which was no surprise. Five's powers made it essentially child's play to complete a job, all he needed was to know where to expect someone, and get them alone. No need to stalk out locations and spy. Not much of a fight either, if he wanted it over with quickly. Jobs got assigned to him when they needed to be done efficiently and precisely. There was a reason Five hadn't been assigned a partner: anyone else would just slow him down, because without his help, no one he'd ever known could perform a jump. Five did well on his own, he managed himself fine, and even just explaining the process of his thoughts would be a burden.

There was, probably, another reason as to why he had yet to be assigned a partner. Five had a bit of a temper, even amongst other assassins. It didn't much matter, he knew he was right. Any Temps Commission idiot could bash someone's head in with a rock. He wasn't social and yet used the fact that he'd never met an assassin that impressed him, as evidence that no assassin would impress him. 

Perhaps fittingly, the subject of the seminar he'd been required to attend, was on 'Negotiation and Collaboration'. The Handler --a person whose wing Five had been under-- had assured him it wasn't personal, just regular impersonal workplace humdrum. But she'd said it with a smirk so there was no telling how true that was. 

People slowly began to filter into a meeting room, which boasted a filmstrip projector at the front and rows of tables facing forward. It seemed like a waste of time to have so many Commission members being talked at when there were jobs they could be doing. It annoyed Five that he didn't have any control over it, but all the same he brought himself a coffee and settled into a space with empty seats to his right and left. Vaguely reminded of orientation --an environment in which he had gotten upset at, it being his first time around so many people--, he tried to forget that sense of familiarity. Truthfully there was a lot of field work in his branch of the Commission, but he'd still found time to start arguments when he was in the base of operations. He people-watched and judged those that came in, recognizing a few killers-for-hire here and there. Five wasn't particularly liked when it came to his division, between his immediate success, the liking the Handler had taken to him, his powers, and his attitude. Leaning back in his chair, he tuned out after the lights had dimmed. It was all mushy nonsense, he didn't need to listen to any of it. That hadn't changed: he still didn't want to be told what he could and couldn't do by authoritative figures that talked down to him. Five just got better about being more mature and reserved when he didn't want to listen.

Whether or not he was nice to colleagues didn't affect his ability to kill.

Suddenly, the lights flickered on, and chairs scraped as everyone stood. Five read what was being projected and sighed --not the end of the presentation, just an activity. Gathering up in the front of the room, they circled up to look at a tangled piece of rope. Exciting. The object of the game was to determine as a group if the rope, when pulled taut, would have a knot, or if it wouldn't. Everyone began talking all at once, an activity Five would've been interested in, if he liked rope, and if he hadn't seen something that had caught his eye. From near the back of the room, one person whom he knew for sure was a mercenary, had passed over his desk, waving a hand over his coffee. To anyone else, it might've just seemed like a mild gesture, nothing to read too seriously into. Five was suspicious anyways. The rope was eventually pulled, only for the consensus to have been proven correct --there what indeed was a knot. Everyone was ushered back into their seats. Five sat down, an idea coming to mind, something he'd done a few times as a boy. He waited until a discussion had begun about what they'd learned, until the person that had stood by his coffee drew their own cup to their lips. 

Five blinked out of the room, deciding to fill his coffee cup to match the level theirs was at, for style points. It probably didn't matter, but he worked thoughtfully for kicks. Spatially jumping in front of the assassin, he swapped his supposedly tainted cup with theirs. Finally, Five settled down into his chair, jumping a few seconds back. It was seamless although he hadn't done it in awhile, the coffee cups had been replaced in the blink of an eye, and because the other assassin hadn't experienced their cup being taken away, they easily tipped it back into their mouth. Five dusted off his blazer, watching passively. Nothing happened right away which wasn't surprising, but it did mean the seminar would pass much more slowly. Five sighed, turning away and not touching his stolen coffee.

\------*´｡*ﾟ

Nearly the forty minute mark, Five wondered if he'd gotten it all wrong. Perhaps he'd been too quick to judge. Maybe all this stuff about healthy communication was starting to get to him. He glanced over at the mercenary, only to see that they were clutching their stomach, eyes bulging. They began to roll in their chair, before a loud and pained groan slipped from their mouth, cutting the speaker off mid-sentence. The speaker tried to continue, before a rough gurgling noise fell from the assassin's mouth. Their skin was growing clammy, and they stood suddenly, clutching onto the edge of the table. Five folded his hands neatly in his lap, watching calmly and noticing that almost everyone else looked worried. The assassin groaned once more, looking around the room before collasping onto the ground. Everyone began calling for medical assistance, and Five sat quietly. He blinked away to fix himself a cup, the way he liked it, and blew off the steam smugly. If they'd tried to kill him, it was a shame they hadn't chosen a more dignified way to do it.

.

.

.

When he could, Diego trained. Perk of working for the gym, as long as he knew how to close and open business, and kept everything clean, he got free reign of the equipment after hours. Having that along with a place to sleep --even if the boiler was perpetually rattling and dripping deep into the night--, meant his pay was on the skim side, even if Al, his boss, didn't mind him much. Winning boxing matches brought him more money than did normal payday, and work as a vigilante brought him practically nothing. He supposed that boxing was kind of an equalizer, it came down to raw skill instead of using his powers. Diego sort of liked it that way, that his own merit and muscle determined whether he'd be defeated, not the talent he'd been assigned a rank on at birth. A part of him did miss knives, and did relish the idea of drawing a blade from thin air and using it on his opponent, especially after bitter defeat. But rules were rules, and it was alright if the cut of his blades were reserved for real criminals, especially after he'd cooled down and the adrenaline of the fight wore off.

Boxing was mostly about the headspace, a familiar one Diego had used for years, which fit over his insecurities and doubts perfectly. He'd win this fight. The weeks coming up to a match, he tended to be concerned about overexerting himself as a vigilante, falling into harm. He'd been forced to cancel fights due to injury before, but as the days neared and he remained safe enough to box, Diego carefully cut down his training hours. He needed his body to be as energized, as ready to pounce, as was physically possible. If Diego just pushed himself to the limit every night like he wanted to, working into the early morning until everything was sore except numb fists, he'd set himself up for ruin in a match. So he culled down the training time, all for that day, where it came down to the wire and every single choice mattered. 

When he closed his eyes, every tingle nerve tingled. It was exhilarating. 

Music poured out from his modest record player as he warmed up in the boiler room, the heat radiating off of the machine kept him hot underneath his layers, even as it was cold fall weather outside. The vinyl was beginning to wear out from use and the shitty needle, but it was the best he could afford, and he knew the songs well enough to fill in any gaps. Diego shadow boxed, preferring the solitude of being alone rather than preparing in the gym, even if the space was more limited. He focused on rhythm and technique only partially --those had been things he'd picked apart for months, this wasn't time for that. Diego imagined himself landing and dodging punches, imagined the sensation of confidence deep in his bones as he pushed forward, taking the offense. He thought of what he wanted to do to win, to establish his position with a fit of strong aggression. It wasn't uncommon for boxers, or most athletes, to reach out to family or friends before they went into the ring. Al was there, but he wouldn't provide Diego support, since he'd be calling the match --conflict of interest, everyone wanted to see a fair game.

So he was on his own. 

Diego had reconciled with this years ago, after he'd looked for somewhere to stay since being kicked out from the police academy. It was no big deal to not have anyone outside of the gym cheering him on. He almost preferred it, being on his own like that. It kept him strong, the only person he needed to worry about was himself. There wasn't anyone to distract him on the sidelines, no one before the fight warning him to not get hurt, and throwing off his game. Yeah, this was better. He thought about how alone he'd be hours before every fight, and always agreed with himself, that he preferred it.

Slowing himself and pulling off his gloves, Diego drank from his water, trying to sip it so his stomach wouldn't be full with water when he went into the match. He wiped at sweat on his brow, before setting the water down and jogging around. 

For once, Diego actually grew more nervous as time passed. There was no reason as to why, since he'd gone up against his opponent before, there wasn't anything new. He brutishly ignored that feeling, because it was a waste of time, because he was getting in his own head. Everything would be fine. Increasing his rigor in spite of the emotion, he tried to convert the nervous energy into motivation, into a lightness. But this didn't work as well as he'd thought it would. Each punch he threw left him off balance, which made no sense, because there wasn't an opponent to block from. The room blurred with each step he took, avoiding the opponent's jabs and pretending to line himself up for something. His hands shook and stomach began to churn, even as Diego clung to the image that so usually empowered him. With each punch, he felt less and less immersed in the fantasy he created for himself, no longer believing, when he imagined striking someone, that the hit actually landed. That made no sense, because it was his mental image. Trying to get a grip, Diego hydrated, pausing to stare at himself in the tall mirror, fading daylight streaming in through somewhat covered windows. The lamplights were much stronger --and warmer too--, than the real sun. Growing upset with himself and feeling generally disoriented, the time passed quicker than he thought it had, soon he was being called.

Slipping in his mouthguard, Diego moved in, past the ropes. He wouldn't let himself get out of this now, because he had a reputation. Head held high, Diego looked from his corner out at the man he'd box --Colin Gordon. Al ran through the usual, talking about their fighting records, their weight, all of that stuff that usually acted like a final shot of energy to his brain by making everything seem real. This time it felt repetitive and boring. Some of his acquaintances from the gym were in the audience, at least he thought so? There was his corner man, ready with the water. Before Diego knew it, they were both summoned to the center of the ring. 

Al held one of their wrists each. Diego made eye contact, staring down Gordon as best as he could, but his head hurt and the aggression was beginning to transform into tiredness. "Now, anything on this belt and above is good. When I say stop, you stop, and give a clean break. Mr. Gordon, Mr. Hargreeves, let's go." They both went back against the ropes, their cornermen leaving the ring. Diego had neglected to listen earlier, if his cornerman had said anything. A bell rang once they were in position, and they raised their fists up to fight. 

He wished he could say he lasted, in spite of the circumstances, but Diego didn't. Jabbed in the gut, he gasped, a wave of intense nausea coming over him and leaving him unable to hit back. The padded glove collided with his head, giving him some sense of urgency that reached through the lethargy. There was shouting in the crowd. Diego tried to move but was just too slow on his feet, unable to watch well enough to look for weak points. He couldn't keep up with the constant adjustments in position, a strong hit on the shoulder tipped him over with more ease than it should've. Diego fell within minutes, dizzy. He didn't get back up as noise buzzed around him. He didn't get back up at all.

.

.

.

You know what Klaus needed? Drugs. Not in like a 'getting your needs and wants' confused type situation, he genuinely needed some good old-fashioned anything. Just to take the edge off! Sober him was whiny and annoying and not even funny, a real lame guy to be around. He was pretty sure he'd be doing everyone a favor by getting high. It hadn't really been a problem in the past, when Allison paid to send him away and keep him from being even more of a scandal, or when he made a deal with the police to avoid prison. All of those times were fine, they were great actually, because the 'no drugs' policy was kind of just a fun quirky little suggestion. The only people that took it seriously were the ones that actually wanted to get better, and Klaus would congratulate those people, because their strength was so encouraging and heartfelt. Since they led by example, even when it was hard, there were more drugs to go around between the fun people. A true sacrifice. 

But in the hellhole he was stuck in after making a deal, they screened for drugs! There was a whole fancy schmancy security room, which meant there wasn't an influx of drugs to depend on. Klaus had been heartbroken when visitor day rolled around and nobody had gotten anything from loving friends, family, or drug dealers. What was he supposed to do? Get sober?! Klaus groaned, having a harder time getting up that morning. He'd pushed through the first few days because he'd thought visitation was the break he was looking for, but now there was nothing. Breakfast was drab and he'd continued onto mediation, parking himself down on an only slightly squishy yoga mat. He danced a hand along the ridged, bumpy texture as white noise began to play. Klaus tried to squish the little foam mountains under his fingers, but they sprang up too quickly after his touch. All last night, he hadn't slept a wink, crying a little and mostly trying to come up with ways to get out. As a result everything was sore in the morning, and he was tired. It was like his whole world was turned upside down; he was left restless at night and fatigued in the day, but everyone else was fine, like this was normal. He had felt so calm after a blunt and missed that. Absent-mindedly, Klaus ran his hand up the veins of arm, seeing scars from where he'd injected himself and staring down at the skin mournfully. He'd tried it in lots of places, most people had favorite spots though, and his arm had been one of them. So many good times. Klaus was envious of past him.

He'd had this cute glass turtle pipe, and found himself missing the cute little guy. Poor Franklin, stashed off in some corner with his pill jacket like the prized possession he was. But what if Franklin had been thrown away? A choked noise escaped his throat, which everyone else in the room ignored. Never that, not after all they'd been through together, not Franklin… Poor thing could be at the bottom of a dumpster, and for what?

Funny thing about drugs, the withdrawal was more intense when you came off of heavier dosage, particularly depending on what sort of stuff you got involved in. Klaus knew this, not because he'd voluntarily gotten sober before, but because he'd had a few instances in the past where he hadn't the money or means to get himself drugs. A few days had passed in rehab and he hadn't really been getting better, it wasn't like he chose to take more copious amounts, it was just that his body got used to it. And Klaus didn't ask for that to happen, not at all --it would've saved him money to portion off drugs instead of slimming down on food, but nobody ever claimed that being a drug addict was an economic pursuit.

In truth, Klaus didn't want to be patient. Nothing about him worked that way; ever since he'd been brought into that prison, he'd thought only of getting a fix and getting out --or the other way around. He didn't believe these people could help him, because they didn't understand his problems. Nobody could, and that was the thing. Ben had tried to tell him just to listen, but even when he wasn't being an annoying ghost of trauma's past, he was just like everyone else, looking at him like he was a walking disappointment and pulling advice out of their ass for him to listen to. It was better for Klaus' mental state that he was never, ever sober. The therapy he found was in back alleys and raves, it sure as hell wasn't next to whale noises and motivational posters. His life was his own, it had always been that way, and he was sick of other people acting like the choices he made for his body were their responsibility, their problem to fix.

It seemed like he had two choices. Sit and meditate, try and let everything go on until he was able to check himself out. Or, as another option, he could make a run for it. Klaus was pretty sure it wouldn't work, he was too tired to try and reactivate the training Reginald had tried to impart on all of his children. But he was a constantly shifting mess of emotions, and it felt good to have something to take that out on, since Ben was 'ghosting' him after he'd yelled at Ben a little past midnight. If he was lucky, maybe they'd put him on something to subdue him, right? Or decide, 'hey, this one's not worth it, he's a goner'. Worth a try, Klaus figured. He stood up, wobbling a little and straightening his shirt. The instructor of the class, who was sat criss-cross on the floor, heard him and opened their eyes, almost expectantly. Klaus nodded, making good eye contact, before walking out. He'd left his shoes in the room near his mat, but it didn't really matter --they didn't have any laces, and it wasn't like he expected to get out. 

Klaus whooped, running through the halls. The floor felt nice on his bare feet, and, decidedly giving up his sudden fantasy of leaving, he made a sharp turn into the art room, which he'd passed before. Pushing open the door and finding it empty, he noticed a huge hunk of clay all wrapped up in plastic, and took a chunk for himself. Klaus played with it idly, rolling it in his palms and coating over the tattoos. It was cold and a bit stiff. He just liked that he was doing something that he wasn't supposed to, it gave him a burst of fulfillment, even if it was far from wild or crazy. He liked the way the doors to the art room burst open, as a few orderlies came in. He liked the way that they looked confused, as if they'd expected him to try and choke himself with a palette knife. No, he didn't know what he was doing or why, but pearls of laughter suddenly erupted from his mouth. 

This was better than sitting in bed and shaking all through the night, being scared that he'd suddenly explode, for no reason more than he felt like a ticking time bomb. The worst possible thing was fear, he'd decided that a long time ago, and withdrawal only encouraged paranoia to fill the gap, where he'd once been carefree. The threats of ghouls only made it more real that he would have to suffer. But Klaus didn't want to think about any of that, much less deal with it.

He tore off a piece of his beloved clay lump, throwing it in the face of the therapist that had come. They dodged it, unfortunately.

"Nice reflexes," he commented, but it wasn't a way to try and engage. The high of impulsivity was already dying down and he'd have to face the consequences. Klaus had already turned off his mind.


End file.
